


Symbiosis

by rubberbutton



Series: A Priori 'Verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbutton/pseuds/rubberbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things come to a head in the fight for human liberation. Meanwhile, John is further ensnared in Moriarty's elaborate intrigue. Sequel to A Priori and White Noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Симбиоз](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456963) by [Wintersnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintersnow/pseuds/Wintersnow)



> Thanks to sasskitten and kaazei for their invaluable help!

I.

"Haven't you seen enough?" Sherlock asks and John glances at him from his spot by the window. It's nearly midnight, but he's got the blinds drawn. He's pushed it aside so he can look out over the street without being seen from anyone outside.

"They've got armoured cars," John says in reply. "Armoured bleedin’ cars." The patrol crawls down the street, a Jeep with two Civvies riding in the open back, machine guns braced against their knees.

They've been making regular circuits of the neighbourhood. John hates to think what it must be like in the human boroughs. People have been killed, he knows, shot down in the street as suspected militants.

John wants to demand to know why Sherlock isn't bothered by the "increased security" but they've already had that fight once tonight. Sherlock doesn't care – and can't be made to care – about anything that doesn't directly affect him. To him the patrols are nothing more than a nuisance on par with a heavy rain. 

\---

Sherlock owns several televisions, but he almost never watches them. The entertainment programmes bore him and the news irritates him.

“They're all lying,” he explains when John tunes in to an early evening news programme. A vampire in a bright teal blazer leads with a breaking report about a thwarted HLF bomb threat. “And they always get the weather report wrong.”

But John watches anyway: footage of vampires in crisp uniforms and shiny boots inspecting the newly initiated guards; the prime minister swearing that she would give no ground on the human rights issue, that human subservience was the foundation upon which Britain had been built; a clip from a security camera of a car exploding somewhere outside of Paris, the grainy images caught in five second intervals. One of the cheerful evening show hosts interviews an 'expert on the human psyche' who claims that compromising on a few of the issues will placate humans, but the hosts clearly think he's a crackpot.

The teal-blazer interrupts the last segment to bring breaking news. An overseer at one of the textile factories has just been found dead. Or rather, most of him has been found. His head has yet to be located. The factory's already been locked down.

“Turn it off,” Sherlock says.

“The responsible parties are being dealt with. No word from Lord Holmes at this time,” the announcer says.

\---

There's a bombing in Islington. John reads as much from the text Sherlock receives just before sunset. He's fished Sherlock's phone out from his jacket pocket.

“Lestrade's asking for you,” John says.

“Always,” Sherlock says. He's slicing very thin bits of … something John doesn't want to identify and dropping them in various solutions. Some of them fizz and spit when they hit the liquid.

“What do you want me to say?” John asks.

“Nothing.”

“Are you not going to go?”

“Of course I'm going.”

“Right,” John says.

Sherlock looks up from the beakers. “He waited too long to ask me last time.”

“So you're playing hard to get?”

“I'm not playing hard to get, John.” Sherlock says, his eyedropper poised over the beaker. “I _am_ hard to get.”

\---

The car is barely recognizable as one of the black cabs used to squire vampires about during the precarious daylight hours.

Lestrade's there already, the area cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. They're actually quite early, the sky is still a deep blue in the west. So Sherlock might be playing hard to get, but he still wants to know.

Sherlock circles the car slowly, hands clasped behind his back. The night is warm and muggy, and he's taken his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. John can almost smell the river when the wind changes, carrying the choking scent of burnt rubber and metal away from him.

He stands with Lestrade, out of Sherlock's way. The forensics team stands by as well, their accoutrements in hand as they wait for Sherlock to finish.

Sherlock leans in and runs two fingers along the boot of the car, before examining the residue on his fingertips.

“John,” he calls. “Have you got my magnifying glass? My favourite with the mother-of-pearl handle?”

John is about to dig the glass out of the pocket of Sherlock's coat, which he's currently got draped over an arm, but he doesn't get a chance to because the car blows up.

The blast catches John, picks him off his feet and tosses back onto the pavement. He lands hard, winded and his vision blurring with pain and what is quite possibly a concussion.

 _Again?_ he thinks and it takes him a moment to remember the car and also that cars shouldn't explode twice. Once is unusual, but twice really beggars belief. Sherlock will be so–

 _Sherlock._

And then John is floundering, trying to get his uncooperative limbs under him. He gets to his feet, but he has to focus on staying there and he can't seem to hear anything over the ringing in his ears. He blinks grit and tears from his eyes; the smoke is sharp enough that they close against it.

John scans for Sherlock, and it takes him a long time to recognise the blackened heap in the road. He starts toward him.

“Easy, mate.” It's Lestrade. His hair is singed and even lighter grey and there's soot lining the wrinkles around his eyes, but he seems all right, far steadier than John. And he's put himself between John and Sherlock. “There's nothing you can do for him. Leave him to me.”

John looks at him in confusion. Why is he in the way? Doesn't he know he needs to get to Sherlock? That Sherlock is hurt? John makes to skirt around Lestrade, but Lestrade grabs his elbow, first restraining him, then steadying him when the gesture is nearly enough to make John fall.

“Let go,” John says. He strains to look over Lestrade's shoulder. He can make out dark hair and skin seared red and black.

“No,” Lestrade says and shifts his grip, throwing his free arm around John's shoulders and steering him away from the smoking car. “You can't see him right now. He's hurt and it's bad – no, he'll recover,” he says as John flinches. “But he's unconscious now and he might not be himself when he wakes up. He might … hurt you.”

Lestrade has got John back to one of the police cars, its doors standing open. He gives John a little push and that's all it takes for John to sit down, his feet still on the street.

“He's going to need blood, lots of it, and his body might take it from the nearest available source.”

“He can have it,” John says. “If he needs it.”

Lestrade sighs and rubs his temples. “Very loyal, but unnecessary. Besides, I'm the one in for a bollocking if you go and do anything rash.” He reaches into a duffle bag sitting on top of the car's bonnet and pulls out a bottle of water. He opens it and hands it to John. “Drink this. Stay here.”

He turns and strides back to the prone Sherlock. John watches through the dirty glass of the windscreen as Lestrade kneels next to Sherlock, directing the other vampires on the scene with a gesture. John takes a long drink, spilling down his chin as his hand shakes. He recaps the bottle and drops it to the floor of the car.

He's a bit steadier when he stands this time, though he still feels nauseated. He feels like a ghost, drifting closer as if it's his body lying on the street. He's a doctor and that part of his brain takes over, automatically cataloguing the damage. The skin and muscle have been seared away from the bone along the bottoms of his arms, his collarbones. The buttons of his shirt have melted. There are deep lacerations on his neck, and side. A bit of shrapnel is embedded under his ribs, though Lestrade seizes the end and yanks it out as though it were nothing more than an oversized splinter.

John wants to stop him, before remembering that his medical training is useless here. Vampires don't need doctors. One of the other inspectors brushes by John and tosses a bag of blood to Lestrade, then another and another. Lestrade catches each handily and sets them next to Sherlock. He punctures one with his teeth and blood splashes out over his fingers. Working Sherlock's mouth open with one hand he puts the blood to his lips with the other. For a moment the blood runs over Sherlock's cheek, but then Sherlock starts to swallow and then to gulp.

Some of the blood runs out of the laceration on his throat, and then John does throw up. He hasn't eaten much and the bile is thin and sour over his tongue. The sound of his retching attracts Lestrade's attention.

“Dammit, John,” he says, picking up another bag of blood. This one Sherlock opens for himself. Sherlock's oesophagus must have closed; he's no longer leaking, though the cut remains. Sherlock drinks this one faster, and he's got himself propped up on an elbow.

He's barely recognisable as himself and John starts as their eyes meet.

“Is he ...” John says.

“He seems all right,” Lestrade says. “Keep your distance, mind.”

John waits. Sherlock finishes all the blood Lestrade has in a manner of minutes. Vampires heal rapidly, but John is vague on the specifics. He's never seen a wounded vampire before and his textbooks gave only the briefest summary of vampire physiology.

Lestrade stands fluidly; if John had been crouching half as long his knees would have given out.

“Get him in the car,” he says to the forensics team, who seize Sherlock and haul him away. “I'll give you a ride home.”

“Shouldn't he see … someone?” John wants to demand they go straight to hospital, but it's a ridiculous thought.

Lestrade claps him gently on the shoulder. “No need. No matter a vampire's ailment, there's only one cure.”

\---

There's a note nailed to the door as John helps Sherlock up the steps. Sherlock tears it down with clumsy fingers. He looks at it and John reads the message, which is short and written in a bold, angular hand:

 _1 - Nil_

\---

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the living room, swaying slightly as though he were standing on the deck of a ship.

"What are you doing?" John all but shouts. "You should be in bed."

"I was in bed," Sherlock says, "but it wasn't very interesting."

"That's not really the point of being in bed," John starts, but Sherlock's expression takes on that mulish set which means he's ready for an argument. "Fine, fine. But at least let me pour you a pint?"

This victory pleases Sherlock and he nods. 

Sherlock has got a row of beakers on the coffee table. He can curl and relax his fingers, though the thick bandages were an impediment. John had insisted on them, more so he wouldn't have to look at the charred skin than because they were any use.

John holds out the large glass. "Now, drink."

Sherlock sighs his annoyance but takes the glass and downs it in one. "There. Happy?"

"Delirious," John says and takes back the empty glass and sets it down. He waits, watching Sherlock, whose swaying has suddenly become more pronounced.

"Oh," Sherlock says, blinking owlishly at John. " _Clever._ "

"You should probably sit down."

"I wouldn't even feel morphine, but it's something in the alkaloid family. Buprenorphine? Nicomorphine?"

"Fentanyl," John admits. "Enough to drop an elephant."

"You underestimated," Sherlock says, but he sinks onto the sofa.

"I always do, with you."

Sherlock blinks a few times, each more slowly than the last until his eyes shut and don't open again.

John doesn't even try to move him, but he does arrange Sherlock's skewed limbs, tuck a pillow under his head, and cover him with a blanket. The only light he's got on is the lamp with an emerald green shade, which is enough to read by but doesn't quite chase the dark from the corners of the room. He makes a pot of tea and sits with a newspaper, turning the page at intervals which have very little to do with whether he's read all the words or not. There's a photograph of a factory, it looks vaguely familiar but then they all do. Seen one factory, seen them all.

But this is the factory where the overseer had been killed by the workers. Three of the workers, actually, who'd jumped him and got lucky. Or not lucky, John decides, as they've been sent – along with the rest of the factory's two hundred slaves – to the rendering plant.

John's vision blurs on a quote from the story.

 _'“The factory should be running again before the week is out,” said Lady Beryl Dis, the factory's owner. “We're bringing in skilled workers from another plant we have in Germany.”'_

John doesn't notice Sherlock's awake until he says, “You don't understand.” John can tell that he's still drugged; his voice doesn't slur, exactly, but there's an indolent timbre to his voice.

John turns another page he hasn't finished. “What don't I understand?”

“Everything, I suspect,” Sherlock says.

“Ah,” John says.

“It's just ...” Sherlock rolls over and fusses with the blanket until he's got it to his liking. “That you've seen so very little. Not your fault, mind. But true.”

“And you have,” John says. “Wearied by the long millennia coming and going like the rising and setting of the sun. That about it, right?”

“Centuries rather than millennia. And it sounds less petty when I say it,” Sherlock says crossly. “You just don't understand. I've been so bored for so long. You can't imagine what it's like to know how every day will be for the rest of – of _ever_. This is the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. ”

John's impulse is to snap something about how hard Sherlock's life must be, the weight of all that privilege, all that freedom, but there's really no point in arguing with the vampire when he's like this. Or ever. “Let me check your bandages,” he says instead.

The drugs have made Sherlock docile and he allows John to unwind the rolls of gauze from his hands and arms. The skin is no longer red but pink and shiny and smooth, still hairless. Sherlock flinches as John traces the depressions in the flesh; the muscle still hasn't finished mending underneath the skin.

“Sorry. Can you squeeze my hand?” Sherlock does so, but his grip is still weak. “You're absolutely mad. This is a _good_ thing?”

“An _interesting_ thing.”

“Good and interesting aren't synonyms.” John discards the bandages.

“They are to me.” Sherlock shifts again. “ _You're interesting_. You've been born to slavery, bred for it, and it's all you've ever known, but you fight it every day. There are wild humans, you know. Family groups that have evaded capture in the Americas, outer Mongolia, places like that. Not usually worth the effort of tracking down, but sometimes a trophy hunter will capture a few. But they're never domesticated, and they … wither in captivity. Greatly abbreviated life expectancy, even when you control for the lack of immunizations and nutrition. Some will just refuse to eat, until they die of starvation. And you … you're like that. I can't explain it. But you're … wild. And you're the first true mystery of my existence.”

“And you're high as a kite,” John sighs.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “But that's neither here nor there.”

 

II.

It's nearly dawn when John comes back from the bloodgrocer, carrying an armful of A positive; they've run through a week's supply during Sherlock's convalescence and he's _still_ hungry. The house is empty, which is unusual. Sherlock wanders out and about at night, but he's almost always home by dawn, safely locked away behind blackout curtains. He has been known to stay out, distracted by a case, and taking shelter in one of the safe houses stationed around the city for just such purposes.

John steps out of the house, checking the street. No sign, but then motion catches his attention and he looks up. Sherlock is on the roof. The attic of the house opens onto a little terrace, more decorative than functional, but John can see Sherlock up there, wearing his coat over silk pyjamas, his head tilting back toward the sky.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, but if Sherlock hears him, he makes no indication. John glances eastward, the sky is rosy, tending to orange and there isn't even a cloud in the sky. He dashes back through the house, taking the stairs two and three at a time, his thighs burning by the time he makes it to the attic. The attic door is closed and for a horrified moment John is absolutely sure it will be locked, but the handle turns under his hand and he bursts into the tiny attic. A breath later and he's out on the terrace. It's definitely dawn now; he can see a sliver of bright sun cresting the horizon.

"What the hell are you doing?" John grabs Sherlock's elbow for extra leverage. "Have you take leave of your senses entirely?"

“They're burning the factory,” Sherlock says. “Have burnt. You've missed the best bit.”

“ _What?_ ”

Sherlock points west toward the river and John can just see the darker mushroom cloud of smoke against the navy of the morning sky.

“Too disorganised for the HLF, most likely a few rogue humans galvanised by the death of those two hundred workers. They got news of the reorganisation – they're not supposed to hear of these things, but whoever thought they could keep this quiet is an idiot and should be sacked on the spot. Now they've,” Sherlock makes an elaborate little wave in the direction of the spreading smoke, “started running through the streets, burning the factory. As if that will make any difference at all.”

“You don't see how that would be motivating?” John asks in reply to Sherlock's musing tone. He takes a hold of Sherlock's elbow and tugs him back toward the attic. “Would you please just go inside?”

"It would take a great deal more than a little early morning sunlight to do me in," Sherlock says, looking perplexed, as if he can't understand why John might possibly be upset. John wants to strangle him, but at least he's moving, letting John herd him back into the attic.

John slams the door after them; there's a great deal of glass panels and the curtain hanging over them is faded lace, so John pulls Sherlock halfway across the room, collapsing against an over-turned chair.

He puts his head between his knees and breathes. "Christ. Now who's the one with a death-wish?"

"No need for hyperbole," Sherlock says, looking down at him. "I'm nearly three hundred, I've acquired a _little_ stamina. It would take me hours to die of sunlight poisoning, if not days.”

 _“You're still _recuperating_.”_

Sherlock all but rolls his eyes. “Are the colours always like that?” he asks instead.

“What?” John asks, and Sherlock looks annoyed as he waits for John to process the question. “You – you cannot be talking about the bloody sunrise, can you?”

Sherlock's eyes narrow.

“I mean, yes? Yes. They're always like that. Well, it depends on the time of year and if there are clouds and things.”

Sherlock's expression grows sharp and curious, and John is going to nip that right in the bud.

“Look, you are not going to start watching the sunrise. If you want, I can take photos or film them or something and you can study it that way.”

“It won't be the same,” Sherlock says. “The degradation will be too great.”

“I'll use high-def, all right? It will have to do. I'll tell Mycroft if I have to.”

“You loathe Mycroft.”

“No, I _fear_ Mycroft. But I will talk to him if I think you've started doing suicidal things. I'm sure he'll have something to say on the matter.”

Sherlock scowls. “Fine. I'm hungry.”

“That I can work with,” John says.

\---

Later, John stretches and burrows deeper under the covers, studying the ceiling of Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's lying next to him, having just finished feeding. He's still nuzzling the small bite on the inside of John's arm, just above the crook of the elbow. John is very warm and very sleepy. He shifts and Sherlock growls a protest.

"Yes, yes," John says. "You greedy bastard. My arm's gone to sleep."

Sherlock reluctantly relinquishes possession of John's arm, and John rolls onto his side, his back to Sherlock. The vampire follows him, sliding a hand up his spine and the side of his neck, lingering there. John knows he's tracing the bite scars. His fingers are warm on John's skin, but John shivers.

"John," Sherlock says. "You could–"

"No," John says.

"Don't you want to know?"

"Let's just say that any curiosity I might harbour on the subject withers in the face of certain execution," John says, and closes his eyes.

Sherlock's quiet a moment and then: "They won't find out."

"Shh. I'm sleeping."

“You're not sleeping; you're talking.”

“Talking in my sleep.”

“Don't be difficult. You know what I mean.”

“Shh.” John keeps his eyes closed. “ _Sleeping._ ”

Sherlock makes a disgusted noise, but he settles. John's not sure who actually ends up falling asleep first.

\---

A thick envelope arrives in the post. It's got the street address printed on the front, but no name and John doesn't pay it any particular mind as he sorts through the rest of the post: a catalogue of scientific supplies, a letter from Mycroft which Sherlock will probably burn without reading.

But then the envelope starts vibrating and John jumps. It buzzes against the wood and shimmies its way across the table. It stops and starts again a moment later. John catches it instinctively before it can work its way over the edge and onto the floor. He already knows it's a phone, but the weight and shape under the paper of the envelope confirms it.

He tears open the envelop and empties it into his hand. There's no note, just a slim black mobile, its screen lit with the words NUMBER BLOCKED. It should have gone to voicemail by now, but the phone still vibrates. He hits 'talk.'

He already knows it's Moriarty before the vampire begins to speak. “Were you surprised? I bet you were surprised.”

John hits 'end'. He stares at the phone in his hand. He's left smudgy fingerprints all over it. It buzzes almost immediately.

“Rude! Very rude,” Moriarty says when John answers it for a second time. “Not very sportsmanlike of you at all, John. Not at all.”

“So the car bomb was you then?” John asks, swallowing against the bile in his throat. “I'd suspected.”

“Of course, it was me. I'm rather proud of it, actually. It was a tricky bit of work to keep the secondary charges from igniting prematurely.”

John lets the silence settle between them for a moment before he says, “Is there any point in me asking why you want to kill Sherlock?”

“Oh John, you break my heart, you really do. I don't want to kill your master. At least not until he works it out – that's how the game is played. And you haven't told him, have you, lover? I knew you wouldn't.” Moriarty sounds pleased; whether with himself or John, John can't begin to guess. “But can you keep it from him for long?”

“He'll stop you. He'll find you sooner or later.”

“I do hope it's sooner. But don't go and spoil the ending for him, darling. Because then I really will have to kill him.” This time it's Moriarty who hangs up.

\---

Mycroft visits, partly to ascertain Sherlock's condition for himself, but mostly to chide Sherlock for letting himself be blown up in the first place.

“Oh please,” Sherlock says. He's in his dressing gown, teacup in one hand, saucer in the other. He's still got scars from his injuries, but they've gone from pink to white and by tomorrow they'll have faded completely. “Admit that you're just a bit pleased.”

“Why on earth would I be pleased? I've always found you trying, but I don't want you _dead._ ”

“I didn't die, though,” Sherlock says. “And now you get to play the outraged brother, the politician who's suffered personally in these trying times. You did cut a dashing figure in the papers, vowing to hunt down the humans behind this unconscionable act.”

“Well, one ought to take an opportunity when it presents itself, however inconvenient the circumstances,” Mycroft said, unperturbed. “And, to be fair, I did tell you to stay away from the HLF.”

Sherlock sips his tea. “You knew I wouldn't.”

“Yes, but my brotherly duties were discharged.”

“Things seem to be getting worse since you tightened security,” Sherlock observes mildly. “Rather than better. Has the rioting continued? How many pounds of taxpayers' money will it take to rebuild, I wonder.”

“So civic-minded of you to concern yourself, Sherlock.” Mycroft steeples his long fingers and gives Sherlock a considering look over them. “The damage hasn't been too great, though the cost of mounting more guards is rather dear. I'm sure the business with the factory will blow over soon. Hot blood soon grows cold, and humans have a frighteningly short memory. They'll get hungry and tired and go home.”

“I read they've erected barricades, that they now control most of Lambeth.”

“Not,” Mycroft says serenely, “for long.”

III.

Dichlorolanymphos is an organophosphate used as an insecticide on soybean, sorghum and cornfields of the Americas.

In humans, mild exposure through cutaneous contact or inhalation of the vapours causes respiratory distress, miosis, and lacrimation.

The symptoms of moderate exposure include collapse, extreme respiratory distress, sweating, headache, vomiting, excessive salivation, tremors, heart dysrrhythmias, and anxiety.

Acute dichlorolanymphos toxicity causes ataxia, unconsciousness, respiratory and cardiac arrest, and death.

On the third day of rioting in the city, the Civic Guards use it to dispel the crowd.

\---

John answers Sherlock's mobile when he recognises Lestrade's number.

"All right, John?" the vampire says when John answers. “How is he?”

"He's actually sleeping now," John says before Lestrade can continue. "So you'll have to leave a message."

"Sleeping, when he's on a case?" Lestrade huffs an amazed laugh. "What did you do, drug him?" John winces and something of his chagrin must come across because Lestrade says, "Shit, did you really?"

"No, no," John says. "… Not this time."

Lestrade whistles, long and low. "You're a brave man, John. Far braver than I. Drugging a sodding Holmes."

"It was for his own good," John insists.

"I'm sure it was," Lestrade says. "Probably did you a bit of good, too."

"Maybe. How can I help you, Lestrade?"

"Well, that's the thing. I'm not sure if you can." Lestrade takes a breath. "There's been a few strange reports at a demolition site. We've had a lot of calls though about humans running amuck and this call nearly got lost in the shuffle, but the crew says some charges have gone missing. Not enough to be really worried, but still not a happy thing, either."

“I can see how that would be awkward.”

"But I can't spare a patrol to investigate. I consulted my list of vampires able to make clever, nearly oracular conclusions based on sediment or moss or a bloke's favourite flavour of marmalade and then I compared that to my list of people willing to throw themselves into the path of human paramilitaries for a laugh. There's only one name on both."

"You're not as amusing as you think you are," John says, feeling unaccountably peevish. He can _hear_ Lestrade grin on the other end of the line.  
   
"You know he'll come," Lestrade says.

"If he hasn't got anything more interesting on."

"He'll come.”

"I'll ask if he wants to," John says and hangs up.

\---

Sherlock wants to.

\---

"This could be a trap," John says.

"I do hope so," Sherlock says. "It's nearly impossible to set one without leaving clues."

"Or it could be a complete dead-end with absolutely no relevance to anything."

"Let's hope not," Sherlock says.

"Yes, god forbid that we have a quiet night in."

The construction site is quiet and dark. Floodlights are posted at the four corners of the property, but John still needs the small torch he always carries.

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to send up a flare?” Sherlock asks.

“The light draws less attention than me tripping over my own feet.” John skirts a row of large white buckets and a stack of cinder blocks.

Sherlock sighs but doesn't comment further. There's a crane and wrecking ball and a bulldozer is parked nearby, but the building is still largely intact. Sherlock picks his way over the rubble, kicking up little puffs of dust with his footsteps. John follows more slowly, worried about turning an ankle.

They enter through the hole where a wall once was and it reminds John of a doll house, with half the building cut away, all the furniture remains nearly undisturbed save for the dust.

“It's so strange,” John says. Sherlock glances at him but then pushes on, taking a door down the hallway.

“What is?”

“I'm not sure.” The night is warm, but John fights to suppress a shiver.

“Very helpful, thank you for your contribution.”

They take the stairs up to the next floor and entering the room directly above the bisected office. This room is much larger, still missing its far wall. A dormitory, John realises; the rows of beds are still here, though most are missing mattresses and the iron frames have rusted away.

"I've been here," John says, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickles. “I used to live here. When I was twelve or so. This was my old school.”

"I know," Sherlock replies.

John glances over at him in surprise and then follows Sherlock's gaze to the wall. There's one intact bed, a fresh coverlet tucked over the rotting mattress, the corners folded neatly under. It's a strange contrast to the others and John realises that this was his bed, when he lived here. For a moment John thinks someone's put up uneven sheets of mismatched wallpaper above the bed's narrow headboard. He brings to the torch beam around to bear on the wall and then nearly drops it. It isn't wallpaper but pictures and paper pinned up in an elaborate collage. He recognises his own face in first one photograph, than another and another.

Every ID photo he's ever had taken lined up in a row – age fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty. There's a copy of the aptitude test that meant he'd train to be a doctor instead of being sent for manual labour. Incident reports, transfer records, a copy of his deed, his fingerprints. Files on his parents, whose names aren't given but his mother's ID is VE 79 54 01 R and his father's is NB 39 29 41 T. There are photographs of them as well, the first time his ever seen them. He looks exactly like his father. His mother isn't very pretty, but she has kind eyes.

Sherlock studies the images and John has no idea what he's thinking. He reaches out and tears one of the photos of the wall for closer inspection. “I thought the message was for me,” Sherlock says. “But it wasn't. It was for you.”

“I always point out that it isn't always about you,” John says.

“You knew,” Sherlock says and turns to face John. “Why didn't you tell me?”

John says nothing.

“Never mind,” Sherlock says and waves the question away with a flick of his fingers. “The answer is obvious. I don't question your loyalty, merely your judgement. You would never willingly betray me and so conspiracy or bribery are out of the question.”

“You seem certain,” John says.

“Quite certain,” Sherlock says with a nod. “There are only two plausible reasons why you would lie to me: he threatened your life or he threatened mine. And your behaviour on any number of occasions – most notably your performance after the bombing – have already proven which you value more highly.”

“He's better than you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's jaw tightens. “He's not better than me,” he says, but John catches the trace of uncertainty in his voice. “You never should have lied to me.”

John shrugs and says, “You're not angry I lied; you're angry you couldn't tell.”

“I wasn't applying myself. And I _trusted_ you,” Sherlock says. He hesitated and then adds, “Go home, John."

"No," John says.

"It wasn't a suggestion," Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth twitching downward.

John crosses his arms and shrugs slightly.

"Adding insubordination to the betrayal? What's next? Next you'll be joining the HLF."

"Probably not, but general contempt is looking better and better. I'm not leaving you."

"I could make you," Sherlock says.

"All right, let's see you do it," John says, unfazed. "You can't out stubborn me and you'll just waste time  
trying."

Sherlock heaves an elaborate sigh. "Fine." He slips the photo into his pocket and exits, stretching his long legs so that John had to jog to keep up.

"And where are we going?" John dares to ask when they're on the street.

Sherlock hails a black cab, but instead of getting in the back seat, he circles to the driver's door, opens it and seizes the startled driver, dumping the man onto the pavement. He slides in and shuts the door and John hastens to get into the passenger's seat before he can pull away.

"And do you know how to drive?" John asks as Sherlock switches gears and the car shudder-hops and stalls as he applies floors the accelerator.

"Yes. Well. I understand the theory behind it,” Sherlock says and gets the car started again, more successfully this time.

"So, no." But after the initial wobble, Sherlock straightens the car out and speeds up. John resists the urge to grab onto something. “Where are you going?”

“To Lambeth.”

"But that's at the heart of the unrest."

"Very good, John. Thank you."

"Well, then," John says. "Okay."

Sherlock makes a sharp left turn, clipping the curb. "Your friend obviously has ties to the HLF and where better to explore that avenue? Of course, if you would just tell me, we needn't bother."

John stares out the window; they're leaving the nice neighbourhoods and shopping district behind and entering the human quarters. No one is about, but they pass a pile of burning tires. There are several suspicious stains on the street and John tries not to think about how they got there.  
   
Sherlock seems to be looking for something, but John doesn't ask what. Sherlock breaks sharply and John's seatbelt catches him. He's about to complain, but then he sees the reason. They've come upon a crude barricade constructed of furniture, a burnt-out cab, mattresses. It's still smouldering, but there's no one about. Well, John amends with a wince, no one living.

Sherlock cuts the engine and gives John a look, one eyebrow crooked.

"No," John says in reply to the unasked question.

"Then we continue on foot."

John unfastens his seatbelt and slides out of the car. Sherlock ducks down a narrow alley, avoiding the barricade entirely. John could touch each wall of the alley without stretching. Sherlock hisses at him to put out the torch. John switches it off, but without it he can make out almost nothing and he stumbles over debris. He recovers and forces himself to move faster to keep up with Sherlock.

Sherlock ignores John's struggles, seeming unconcerned with whether John keeps up or not. He picks a deliberate path, though if he has a specific goal, John can't guess. Sherlock knows the city, even the human districts and he makes his way with absolute certainty.

John doesn't see the brick until it nearly hits him, whistling just past his shoulder and hitting the pavement with a bang-skitter. There's a lantern ahead, backlighting the figures of two men, one lofting another projectile, the other brandishing a crowbar. Sherlock starts running, towards their attackers. John cries out wordlessly and follows, but Sherlock is moving faster than John has ever seen him. He closes the distance in a matter of seconds and then he's on them. He grabs the first's wrist, twisting it until John can hear the bone snap. The man drops and Sherlock's foot comes down on his neck, even as he's catching the crowbar and reversing the swing. There's a crunch as it makes contact with the second man's skull and he, too, crumples.

Sherlock tosses the crowbar aside as John catches up. John doesn't bother to feel for a pulse.

Sherlock straightens the cuffs of his shirt. "Come along, John. There's bound to be more of them. Mustn't linger."

They come to another barricade, this one manned by a least a dozen. Sherlock gives it a considering look. There's a report from a gun and they take cover around the corner of a building.

"They've petrol bombs as well. I can smell the kerosene from here," Sherlock says.

"Think you can take them all at one time?" John asks. He's not even sure if he's being sarcastic or not.

"I don't have to," Sherlock says. He turns and heads further down the alley.

There's a fire escape, which screeches in a rather alarming way when Sherlock catches its bottom rung and clambers up. It snaps back up into place leaving John staring up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, wait," John says, feeling the first real moment of panic as he realises Sherlock can leave him. John can't make it without him, he's shorter than Sherlock and he's never been much of a jumper.

Sherlock hesitates and then reaches down, his fingers closing around John's outstretched wrist. He pulls John up onto the landing one-handed and with no obvious effort. John knows vampires are strong, but Sherlock exerts himself so rarely that sometimes John forgets.

They race up the rest of the escape, Sherlock taking the steps two and three at a time.  
Even with the gibbous moon, John can't see much beyond the tops of the buildings, a sliver of the streets and here and there the smouldering of a fire. The rest is swallowed in blackness – either the Civvies have cut power to this section of the city or the rioters have cut the lines.

But Sherlock must see something, from his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. John doesn't ask because he doesn't think he'd get an answer; he just waits. For several long minutes, Sherlock stands perfectly still and then, without warning, he flings himself off the edge of the building.

Or not fling so much as jump. He clears the alley between buildings – a gap of nearly four metres – and lands lightly. He beckons for John to follow. John casts about for another route and finds one in the narrow scaffolding erected along the far building. There's a stack of lumber near the far end of the roof he's on. John starts to rig a bridge across onto the scaffolding, but Sherlock's already disappearing across the second roof.

“Sherlock!” John shouts, panic making him heedless of discovery.

“I'll return for you,” Sherlock calls back. “But I can't wait, I'm so close. I know it.”

“Dammit,” John says to himself, alone. Or not quite.

“He is getting rather close, isn't he?”

John starts to turn, but he's seized from behind, a black bag pulled over his head. He struggles, thrashing violently and manages to land a solid kick on his assailant. The man grunts and his voice his deeper than Moriarty's. Henchman, then.

"Oh honestly," he hears Moriarty say, as John manages to bash his head into something bony – chin, maybe – and there's a sharp blow to his temple and he loses consciousness.

\---

He comes to, more or less, the floor thrumming and bouncing under him. A van, his rattled brain supplies. He rolls a little, with the inertia of the van as it rounds a corner, hoping to conceal his wakefulness. He doesn't run into anything and he thinks he might be alone in the back. He'd be happier about it if he weren't suddenly preoccupied with not being violently sick. He's still wearing the black bag; it would not be pretty.

His wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape, and he doesn't even struggle against them other than to try and relieve the pressure in his shoulder and hip. Moriarty doesn't do things by half measures.

John closes his eyes and tries not to think, to ignore the physical misery, the fear, pushes the thought of Sherlock from his mind. And for a while he does manage to lose awareness of himself, if not exactly to sleep, but he's jolted out of it as the van stops and its engine is cut.

He hears the back of the van open and he's pulled out. This time he doesn't fight as he's dragged and summarily dumped on a cold concrete floor. Florescent light seeps in around through the loose weave of the bag and he can smell the sharp acrid smoke of a chemical fire. The footsteps – three people – echo a bit and he has the sense that he's in a vast room. The burnt factory would fit and it would appeal to Moriarty's dramatic flair, but there's no way to be certain.

There's the scrape of something along the floor behind him, accompanied by the sound of dress shoes clicking on the floor.

"And now we wait, darling boy," Moriarty says somewhere above him. Moriarty settles, the shish of expensive cloth unmistakable and a moment later he sets the heel of his shoe on John's throat. It sends a jolt of white pain through John and he suppresses a whimper. It would take very little effort on Moriarty's part to snap John's neck.

They wait. John thinks maybe it's been an hour but his internal clock as been rather thoroughly scrambled along with his brain and the time could have been much shorter. John can hear little beyond the sound of blood pounding in his ears.

He knows, though; he knows the moment Sherlock finds him. The heavy creak and slam of a metal door and footsteps that step in.

"Oh!" Moriarty says in delight. "Your face! Your expression is even better than I'd imagined. And I've been thinking of this moment for so long. You didn't even guess, did you?" Moriarty's heel digs in, just a little. "Really I owe so much to John here. He's been nothing less than instrumental. Round of applause." Moriarty claps vigorously. When he stops the black bag is yanked from John's head and he jerks away from the sudden brightness, but Moriarty's foot keeps him from going too far. "Baby, take a bow. You're just beautiful, kid. Just beautiful," Moriarty says in voice not his own, one that sounds vaguely familiar.

John's eyes adjust and focus on Sherlock. He's got his shirtsleeves rolled up and there's a smudge of something on his cheek – possibly ash. John tries to catch his eye, but Sherlock's not looking at him. Sherlock's looking at Moriarty with an expression of absolute hatred.

"Well, go on," Moriarty says, his tone suddenly annoyed. "Aren't you going to say something? Ask me the why and wherefore?"

"You're saying enough for both of us," Sherlock says. "I'd ask you but you want to tell me more than I want to know."

"Aw, you're being coy. I'm the only one who's allowed to be coy." Moriarty's foot presses down, digging into John's windpipe. John coughs and writhes against it.

"All right," Sherlock says and the foot pressure eases a fraction. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what you'd do to save his life." Moriarty sits back and crosses his arms. John can breathe easily and he take a ragged gasp.

“Why John?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Sherlock grimaces and then says, “You want to know how I'd inconvenience myself to save his life? He cost my brother sixty-thousand pounds. With depreciation? I wouldn't spend more than fifty-five."

Moriarty tsked sadly. "Sherlock, bluffs really only work when the other person doesn't know you're bluffing." Moriarty leans over John. "Why does your master insist on lying to me, Johnny? If he lies to me again, I'm afraid I'll kill you, more's the pity. I rather like you." He ruffles John's hair before sitting back up, his attention again on Sherlock. "Well?"

There is an exceptionally long pause. John lets his eyes close, his world the red colour of the inside of his lids.

Sherlock's voice is quiet but firm when he says, "Anything."

"What was that?" Moriarty asked, a hand cupping the back of his ear.

"Anything," Sherlock says again louder. "I'll do anything to save his life."

"That's rather what I thought you'd say."

"Then what do you want?"

Moriarty takes his foot from John's neck and stands. He straightens his french cuffs. "Absolutely nothing; at least, not from you."

He turns and walks away, flanked by the two henchmen. As if to punctuate his exit, there's a deafening roar which breaks the windows and shakes the walls. Moriarty stops but doesn't turn back to say, "Ah, I see the HLF has got my gift. Nothing says good on you like 70 kilos of C4. They can take out most of London with that. I so admire their work."

He leaves.

Sherlock watches Moriarty leave, waiting until the door shuts behind him to go to John. He's got a pocket knife out, carefully slicing through the tape at his wrists and ankles and pulling it away.

"Injuries?" he asks.

"Nasty knock on the head," John says and sits up with Sherlock's help. His eyes water at the pins and needles of returning circulation.

Sherlock takes John’s chin in one hand and holds the other up in front of John's face. "Follow my finger." He moves it from side to side like a metronome.

John pushes him away. "I'm fine. Let's get out of here, all right?" John gets to his feet by himself, though there's a precarious moment when he's not sure his knees will hold. His head is more of a dull ache and his balance is actually pretty good as he stretches his legs making for the door.

"What's the best way out? I missed a lot coming in," he says, hesitating when he gets there.

Sherlock makes a small, noncommittal noise and takes the lead. Twice on their way out they're rocked by explosions closer than the last. The hallway out is blackened; the evidence of the burning, debris litters their path, fallen support beams. Another explosion shakes dust and more debris free.

"Hurry," Sherlock said. "A cave-in would be inconvenient. I could carry you."

"Not necessary," John says through gritted teeth and forces himself to hurry.

They make it out, the building beginning to shake around them, and John hears the crash of falling cement. A cloud of dust follows them out as the building implodes in on itself.

John coughs hard enough to see stars and they're both coated head to foot in dust and ash.  There's the roar of engines, growing quickly louder.

“That's too heavy to be a Jeep,” Sherlock says, his head cocked slightly to the side. “They mean to clean the area and they've brought in help to do it. Come along, we don't want to be here when they arrive.

They run, and this time Sherlock's careful not to leave John behind. He checks his stride ever so slightly, keeps throwing small glances in John's direction. Smoke drifts through the street, a choking fog that means John can see little more than a few paces ahead. There are other human in the street, most running the opposite direction – further into the borough. They avoid John and Sherlock.

“This way,” Sherlock says. “They've closed that street already.” And they take a sharp left turn. They reach another of the barricades, this one more solidly built from a derelict van and repurposed construction materials. Sherlock doesn't stop, and John clambers up after him, his foot slipping against the boot of the van. Sherlock stops on its roof and catches John's elbow.

“Wait. I think I hear something.” They both wait and John holds his breath, listening hard. In the distance he can hear shouting, screaming, but this street is absolutely silent. He suppresses a shiver. “We should double-back.”

John nods wearily, and doesn't bother to ask why. Something whistles through the air very close to John and he hears the clatter and hiss of the gas canister. He knows he's fucked even before tears are streaming down his face and he falls, his limbs no longer working.

He's not aware of much after that. He feels himself being grabbed. There's cotton in his ears and his vision is tunnelling to points, but he knows Sherlock's there. He hears his own name and he wants to say something wry and ironic, but, like the rest of him, his mouth isn't working. There's a startling feeling of warmth between his legs and he realises he's pissed himself.

 _Insult to injury,_ he thinks, and loses consciousness.  
   
\---

He's next aware of his throat hurting. Someone's rubbing his oesophagus, and he swallows reflexively. He tries to pull away, but he can't. There's nothing he can to do but swallow the hot liquid on his tongue. He fades back into blackness.

\---

The next time he comes to, he's able to open his eyes, though it does him very little good as he can't seem to get them to focus.

"John," a voice says somewhere over him. He recognises the voice though he can't seem to find a name to attach to it. That frustrates him; it's a very important voice; he should be able to find the name. "John, I need you to drink." Something is pressed to his mouth, soft and wet and John tentatively licks and then instinct takes over and he latches on, drinking as the voice mummers encouragement.

\---

John wakes and regrets it instantly. He's fully himself now, albeit with a migraine and his skin – all of it – feels bruised and tender. He recognises the ceiling of Sherlock's room but when he sorts back through his tattered memory, he has no recollection of the journey back across town. He's naked and the Egyptian cotton of the sheets feels like burlap against his skin. Sweat prickles on his forehead, his armpits, his groin, but he can't stop shivering.

"Do you know where you are?" the voice – _Sherlock's_ voice, thank Christ – asks. John turns his head, which taxes his strength and coordination to their limits, until he finds Sherlock, sitting in a chair by the bedside.

"Yes," John says, or at least mouths, but Sherlock seems to understand. "Water."

Sherlock brings water, holding the glass and cupping the back of John's neck so he can drink. Most of it runs down John's neck anyway, and Sherlock mops at it with the corner of a sheet. The water helps and John finds the energy to say, "What have you done?"

"Nothing I regret," Sherlock replies evenly. "Except taking you with me in the first place. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake." Sherlock sets the glass on the bedside table and starts to move away, but John makes a little noise of protest.

"Stay."

Sherlock nods and stretches out next to John. The bed is vast, and they aren't touching. Which is just as well, John doesn't think he could abide being touched right now.

"Are we safe here?" John asks after awhile.

"For the time being," Sherlock replies. "My brother's rallied the troops, as it were, and has killed many of the rioters and pushed back the rest."

"How many?"

"How many rioters or how many have died? Never mind, I'll answer both. The last count I heard was that twenty-five thousand humans joined the riots throughout Greater London. About eight thousand have been killed – mostly from the gas. The detention centres are all over-capacity."

It's as if the numbers have no meaning to John, and he doesn't feel anything but tired.

"They've brought in the Civic Guards from Manchester and Liverpool." Sherlock yawns hugely, his jaw cracking. "The queen's called for a ceasefire; she's agreed to meet with HLF representatives, if the HLF can come to some agreement on just who their representatives are."

John drifts for awhile, not exactly sleeping, but not exactly awake either.

"You should drink again," Sherlock says. "A periodic infusion is needed in the early stages of your recovery to ensure you don't relapse."

"You're mad," John says. Sherlock's already got his sleeve rolled up above his elbow and he's unwinding a bandage, to reveal an open cut near his elbow.

"You should have healed already," John says. A minor cut like that should have taken minutes to close and it occurs to him to wonder just how much he's taken from Sherlock. There are purple shadows under his eyes and his skin is no longer just pale but grey.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says. He gets the cut bleeding again with his fangs and leans over to offer his arm to John.

"Sherlock – "

"Don't waste it, you fool. Neither of us can afford it," Sherlock snaps and John licks away the blood before it can drip onto the sheets. The flow is sluggish and the taste is a strange combination of sweet and bitter that is entirely unlike the salt and copper of human blood.     

There's a low thrum that starts low in the pit of John's stomach, and there's a disorienting moment when he recognises it as pleasure – not his own but Sherlock's. His own body is too tired to feel anything other than hunger, though it gets a bit stronger with each mouthful. He forces himself to pull away before he's ready to; he doesn't think that Sherlock will stop him. He can still feel Sherlock in his brain like an echo. John's glad he's lying down because he feels dizzy.

"Sherlock," he starts but he can't think of what he wants to say, there's so much of it and most of it defies language. "Go eat something before you do yourself real harm."

Sherlock laughs and John can feel his amusement radiating off him like heat. "I will, I will. In a moment. I'm not as fragile as you suppose."

IV.

The speed of his own recovery surprises John. Age and a struggle with chronic anaemia has meant it usually took him longer to recuperate, but within twenty-four hours he's gone from near death to feeling better than he'd felt at twenty. And once he's shaved off the stubble, he thinks he even looks younger. Well, the wrinkles are still there, but the shadows under his eyes have faded and he's got a bit of colour in his normally sallow cheeks.

He knows Sherlock notices, catalogues everything and stores it away in the crannies of his brain. John's a bit surprised, actually, when Sherlock doesn't test his reflexes. But Sherlock does watch him with the intent expression he normally reserved for experiments.

\---

"It's too dangerous to keep up," John says later, when Sherlock offers him a wrist.

"The risk to you is minimal,” Sherlock says rolling up the cuff of his shirt. “The worst possible scenario is that we're caught and executed. You lose maybe a few decades – and most of that decline."

"Right, what's a few decades more or less?"

Sherlock continues, ignoring his interjection. "This way you might gain centuries; no one's ever tested the upper bounds of human life expectancy before. John, you'd be a fool not to take the chance."

"What about you, then?" John asks. "I doubt even your brother could save you when we're caught. And we will be caught, sooner or later. Someone's going to notice when I hit a hundred and haven't kicked it yet."

"You'd be surprised. I could just say that you're your own descendant, that I'm breeding a whole line of you. Or we could travel – the colonies, maybe. Or the Continent. They're much more lax about these things. In France, letting a human feed on you is considered a personality quirk. I read that."

"Yes, in the _Mail_ – it's what they say to prove how debauched the French are. Not exactly a reliable source." John reaches a hand out in entreaty. "Sherlock. I may not have much to lose, but you do."

"I don't care," Sherlock says, his jaw set and his expression mulish. "About any of it."

"I care. I don't want you to die because of me. Because you're too bloody minded to realise that there are things you can't change."

"How can you be so selfish?" Sherlock cries, bouncing up from his chair to pace around the room.

"Selfish? Because I don't want you to risk your life for me?"

"No, because you'd rather die than suffer the merest twinge of guilt. Think how I must feel."

John rubs the base of his neck; the muscles are knotted and tight. "You really can't see the irony, can you? How can you say that with a straight face?"

"When you die, that's it, your problems are over–"

"Lucky me."

"But what am _I_ to do?"

"You managed all those years before you bought me, I have every confidence you'll get on after I'm gone."

If Sherlock had been standing near the sofa or one of the overstuffed armchairs, he might have sat down. He wasn't, though, so he collapses straight down on to the floor, like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.

John sighs, puts his hands on his hips and goes to stand over the prone Sherlock. "Is this absolutely necessary?"

Sherlock's only response is to close his eyes. John kneels by Sherlock, folding one leg under himself. The vampire doesn't move, even his chest is still. John brushes the fringe from Sherlock's forehead and still Sherlock doesn't react, though he hates it whenever John fusses over him. Bracing himself up with one arm, John leans in. For a moment, he hesitates; Sherlock's eyelashes are short, but thick. It's only from this distance that John can see the lilac veins under the pale skin, the stray hairs between his eyebrows.

John kisses him, light and utterly chaste, on the mouth.

"All right," John says, no more than a whisper. "All right."

 

V.

It's ten o'clock in the evening when Mycroft calls on them, the night after the rioting's finally ceased and the streets are passable, though still heavily patrolled. John's upstairs and doesn't hear the knock, but Sherlock must have been feeling unusually accommodating, because he answers it rather than shouting until John does hear him.

John's on the landing when Mycroft sweeps in, and he gets a glimpse of Mycroft's expression as he strides into the drawing room. Mycroft is flushed and his gait agitated and John shivers to think what might have Mycroft's calm so disturbed.

John waits on the stairs, curious, but tempts to escape while he can. The decision's made for him when Mycroft shouts, “John! John, if you value you your life, come here!”

“It's rude to order other people's property about,” Sherlock says, his lip curled as John enters the room.

Mycroft ignores his brother and turns on John, closing the space between them in less than a heartbeat. John forces himself to hold still as the vampire circles him, not quite touching John, but John can feel Mycroft's breath on his cheek.

Mycroft finishes his inspection and he goes to the mantle, bracing one arm against it and staring at the grate as though there were a fire laid. When he turns back around, his calm has returned and he's utterly cool as he says, “I've had a most interesting letter early this evening.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his trench coat and draws out a folded bit of heavy parchment.

John gets a glimpse of the angular handwriting as Mycroft unfolds it; it looks familiar.

Mycroft reads the letter aloud with agonizingly precise diction: “Just a note to let you know that your cheeky little brother has been awfully naughty. Seems he's rather too fond of his slave. Blood-sharing with a human is still a capital crime but I don't judge.” The page in Mycroft's hand trembles, ever so slightly. “But perhaps it's merely grist for the rumour mill. Post Script: If anyone's still keeping count, the score stands at 3 - Nil, but the ball's in your court.” He finished reading and folded the letter neatly before tucking it back away.

John risked a glance at Sherlock, but Sherlock's gaze was on Mycroft. If he was concerned, he didn't show it, instead fell into a chair, crossing one leg insouciantly over the other and smoothing a wrinkle from his trouser leg.

“It's true, isn't it?” Mycroft says. “I can smell you on him. You've always been eccentric, Sherlock but this … this is perverse. Do you know who wrote this letter?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock replies evenly.

Mycroft snorts. “Not really. Whatever the particulars, the course of action will not alter.”

“Which is?” Sherlock's eyes are half-lidded, as though he's not particularly interested in the answer, but his shoulder tense slightly, barely perceptibly, betraying his tension.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and massages his temple. “I assume your reaction would be rather … drastic if I were to eliminate the problem wholesale.”

“I'd kill you,” Sherlock says with calm sincerity.

“You'd fail,” Mycroft says with an indulgent smile.

“Then I'd die trying.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft allows. “I'd rather not commit fratricide – however justifiable. I've a house in south of Crawley off the M23, frightfully unfashionable, but useful when one needs to be discrete. There's a helicopter scheduled to collect you in twelve hours and whisk you off to the Continent.”

“And John, too,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, and your obnoxious little pet as well. Rue the day I ever set eyes on him.” Mycroft starts for the door. “Come along. The car's waiting and there's no time to pack.”

\---

It's an uncomfortable ride, and John spends most of it trying to decide whether he thinks Mycroft is actually helping them escape the country or whether he's merely going to have them killed and bury them in a shallow grave with as little fuss as possible. Either option seems equally likely.

No one says anything the entire ride. After an hour or so they leave the main road behind and take a twisting country road out into a wooded area. The shallow grave option seems suddenly a great deal more likely. John's a bit disappointed – this is the first time he's ever left London and he wishes he could see a bit more. Time has never been on his side.

The car pulls onto an even narrower gravel drive which opens up into a clearing with an old house. The driver cuts the engine and Mycroft gets out, followed by Sherlock and, finally, John.

The front door isn't locked when Mycroft tries it, and they file in. Mycroft doesn't turn on a light. The vampires don't need it, but then, perhaps the house isn't wired for electricity. John gets the impression of dilapidated furniture and Mycroft collects an oil lamp from the table as he takes them through the kitchen and down a flight of creaking steps into the basement. Dirt floors, John notes; excellent for burying people.

“The house isn't properly sun-proofed, and I prefer the neighbours didn't notice any activity, as well.” He takes out a silver lighter and lights the lamp. The flame sputters and strengthens, casting a hazy light through the dirty glass of the lamp's chimney. Mycroft sets the lamp down on the floor. He pulls out an envelope from the outer pocket of his coat. "Here are the instructions," Mycroft says and hands Sherlock an envelop and John realises that he'd planned this before he'd even confronted Sherlock. "There's a Swiss account number as well. That's all I can do. Don't contact me."

"I won't."

"If they catch you, I'll condemn you myself."

"I know," Sherlock says. Neither of the brothers move, just stare at each other for long moments. Finally, Mycroft extends his hand. Sherlock shakes it, once, twice.

"Good luck," Mycroft says.

Sherlock nods. "Thank you.”

Mycroft's gaze flickers to John, cold and impassive. “So much trouble for so little reason.” He leaves and a minute later they hear the car pull away.

“Oh, _damn,_ ” Sherlock says, pressing the knuckle of his index finger to his mouth. “I've forgot my favourite magnifying glass.”

\---

They wait. John tries to sleep, stretching out on the floor and balling up his coat for a pillow, but the hard ground make his shoulder ache and the cold seeps into his bones. There are still over eight hours

“I thought he was going to have us killed,” he says after awhile.

“Mmm?” Sherlock says. “Oh, yes, the thought had occurred to me as well. But if he was going to, he'd have done it by now.”

“Ah,” John says. “Well, that's a relief, I suppose.” He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. It's amazing what the fear of imminent death does for one's perspective. “I know the circumstances aren't ideal, I have always wanted to see the Continent. Do you think we might go to Italy? See all the ruins and things? And the rioting's stopped. Do you think the queen will grant the HLF's demand to lift travel restrictions within the city?”

“Your optimism borders on delusion,” Sherlock says, sounding bored. “We'll be too busy fleeing for our lives to site-see. I very much doubt Moriarty's done with me – or you. And my brother wasn't joking when he said that he'd condemn me, if he caught me. And he will be looking, he's career depends on it. And as for human rights, well, I'm sure history will repeat itself.”

“What,” John says flatly.

“This isn't the first time humans have decided they deserve rights – though admittedly this is a more impressive effort than the last uprising in 1922.”

“What uprising?”

“Of course you wouldn't know, the authorities do try and keep these little debacles under wraps.”

“What happened in 1922?” John asks.

“Oh, the usual,” Sherlock says and rolls his eyes. “The rioting, the bombs – dynamite isn't quite as impressive as C4, but it was used as little more than a rhetorical flourish. The queen made her usual speech about considering the humans' demands. Things returned to normal, the trouble-makers disappear and whatever allowances have been made are soon rescinded.”

“It's all been for nothing,” John says, feeling nothing but hollow.

“It usually is,” Sherlock replies.

John wants to cry, but he hasn't done that in years and he's not sure if he remembers how. He's thirsty, besides, and doesn't have the tears left. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, which itch with exhaustion.

“I suppose it doesn't matter where we hide, so long as we keep moving,” Sherlock says eventually. “Italy would be as good a place to start as any.”

\---

The sound of helicopter blades is unmistakable and John rouses. He'd fallen asleep after all, his head pillowed against Sherlock's thigh.

"Sherlock," John says and shakes Sherlock's shoulder. The vampire isn't sleeping but stares at a small brown spider spinning a web in the corner. John hopes it's not a sign.

" _Argiope bruennichi,_ " Sherlock says. "Strange. We had such a cold winter."

"Time to go," John says. Sherlock gets to his feet and follows him.

\---

The sun is just beginning to rise to John's right as the helicopter lifts off. John rides next to the pilot, a headset muffling the thump-thump-thump of the blades. Sherlock rides in a sun-proof compartment in the back. The water of the Channel is black in the early morning light, though John can just make out the white splash of surf and the thin ribbon of England's shore as it disappears behind them.

He doesn't look back.


End file.
